


i cannot live without my soul

by surrealmeme



Category: The Iliad - Homer, The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ancient Greek Religion & Lore Fusion, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death Fix, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fix-It, Inspired by Orpheus and Eurydice (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), M/M, Post-Canon, Post-Canon Fix-It, basically achilles is orpheus and patroclus is eurydice, paris bashing, some violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-03
Updated: 2019-09-03
Packaged: 2020-10-06 04:55:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20501243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/surrealmeme/pseuds/surrealmeme
Summary: Achilles had the power to bring a city to its knees before its time. The power to defy fate and mold the future to his will. And if Achilles could change the fate of a city, why shouldn’t he be able to change the fate of the dead?





	i cannot live without my soul

_What has Hector ever done to me?_

A fool’s question. How could anyone ask such a thing, when Hector had stolen Patroclus from Achilles – stolen his only friend, his lover, his reason for existence. Stolen the one person that saw Achilles as more than _Aristos Achaion_, more than the prophecy that loomed over his life. Stolen _everything_ from Achilles.

The swift-footed warrior knew that the question had been the comforting mantra with which he had rationalized his inaction and prolonged his time with Patroclus – but he could not help but scoff at it.

_Name one hero who was happy_.

Patroclus had said he could not, that it was impossible to be both famous and happy. And Achilles, like a fool, had sworn that he would be the first. Because of Patroclus – _for _Patroclus.

Perhaps that was the very moment Achilles had doomed them. When he so brazenly defied the Fates and the destiny that dictated his life.

Achilles was no longer that fool, the naïve boy that believed his love had the power to change fate. And so, he accepted that fate, wore the name of _Aristos Achaion _and reveled in all the blood and gore that came with it.

Donning his new armor, forged by the hands of the Smith-God himself, Achilles descended upon the walls of Troy. Carnage trailed Achilles’s divine fury, breaking through men and carving a path out of their bodies. He fought a river and its god, a feat that would be talked of for millennia to come, but Achilles though nothing of it. It did not matter, not when the man that had slain Patroclus still walked and breathed upon the earth. When his spear dripped with blood, his sweat gleamed, and his hair was molten gold in the sun, Achilles finally set his vengeful eyes upon Hector. The sight of his own armor, the armor that Patroclus had marched to his death in, drove Achilles into a rage unmatched by even Zeus’s wrath.

The men of the war had all said, “Achilles, he who is like to the gods.” In turn, Patroclus was peer to gods in counsel. And without Patroclus to temper him, Achilles’s rage blazed out from his bleeding heart, blinding and all-consuming.

Achilles charged, his speed impossible to match, and Hector’s title as Troy’s greatest warrior lost all meaning. What did it matter that he was twice Achilles’s size, that he was strong enough to snap Achilles’s spear and shatter his shield? There could only be one victor, and swift-footed Achilles triumphed over Hector of the shining helm with ease. The moment he drove his spear into Hector’s throat, Achilles chose glory. His destiny was fulfilled – short-lived fame over long-lived obscurity.

But Achilles felt no glory. He did not feel triumphant. He was numb to even the rush of vindication at taking his revenge. He felt _nothing_, just the jagged void where Patroclus should have been. Achilles had said it himself – _Patroclus_ was the reason he would be the first hero to be happy. So, of course Achilles didn’t feel anything now – how _could_ he?

+++

Desecrating Hector’s body and forcing Priam to beg for its return did nothing for Achilles. Neither did the massive funeral for Patroclus that he had insisted on.

For a time, Achilles considered rejoining the war, letting any young fool challenge him – maybe that fresh-faced Trojan who could barely hold up his spear would turn out to be the one to kill Achilles and bring an end to the accursed prophecy.

But rumors spread through the Greek camp, rumors that the gods played bigger roles in the war than sending plagues. Whispers that they stood on the battlefield themselves, setting arrows straight and spiriting away their chosen men from certain death. Then these whispers became bold declarations, advocated by not only common soldiers but also men like Odysseus and Agamemnon.

And so, Achilles came to believe it too. Believe that it was divine meddling that led Hector to the exact spot where he would be able to kill Patroclus. And one night, as a blissful dream about his lover faded away, Achilles found proof. The peaceful scene melted into the battlefield where, after killing Hector, Achilles encountered Paris – the incompetent and lustful child that caused the entire war. It was clear to anyone that the boy could barely draw his bow, and yet his aim was true – Achilles, mortally wounded, fell to the ground. There, he saw Apollo and knew that the distant deadly Archer had guided Paris’s arrow. As Achilles’s vision faded away, he heard, in Zeus’s booming voice, _Troy must not yet fall._

Upon his waking, Achilles was certain that his vision of some other fate proved two things: that the gods actively influenced the course of the war, and that he, a mortal, had the power to bring a city to its knees before its time. The power to defy fate and mold the future to his will. And if Achilles could change the fate of a city, why shouldn’t he be able to change the fate of the dead?

+++

Despite what his reputation and recent events may suggest, Achilles was capable of being calm and pragmatic. He knew that to get Patroclus back, he would need to appeal to Hades. All the poets sang of Orpheus and his tragic failure to bring Eurydice back from the Underworld – Achilles had even sung of them himself, back when he was a boy playing his lyre. Everyone knew that entrances to the Underworld were hidden throughout the land – but few knew where one was to find them. And _especially_ few mortals.

Achilles would have to ask Chiron, or perhaps a deity. And while Chiron would be best, Achilles simply couldn’t afford to journey to Mount Pelion from Troy. Apollo bore no love for him, Aphrodite protected Paris, and Athena favored Odysseus.

In no way was Achilles pleased, but he knew his only plausible option would be to speak to Thetis – the goddess who, very conveniently, quite loathed Patroclus. But Achilles still was her son, and Thetis was much more motherly than other goddesses. Knowing this, Achilles went down to the shore, easily sneaking past the beached and poorly manned Greek ships.

_They say that Helen’s face has the power to launch a thousand ships,_ Achilles thought. _A thousand measly ships, _that’s_ what the combined might of all the Greek kingdoms comes to? I’d alone launch ten thousand ships for Patroclus._

After all, what were a thousand ships compared to Achilles’s plot to march into the Underworld and demand that Hades restore life to Patroclus? What were _ten thousand _ships?

Absorbed in thought, Achilles let his legs absently carry him to a small, concealed cove on the rocky beach. He spilled a simple offering of wine and honey into the water.

_“O Goddess Thetis, Achilles, son of Peleus, calls you! Mother, your son calls you!”_

Then Achilles sat down, leaning against the rock wall. She would come.

+++

Thetis manifested in a rush of cold air, sea spray, and stinging salt. She stood, tall enough to block nearly all light from entering the cove. Face pale and gaunt, hair black and dripping, gown the color of the wine-dark sea, Thetis gazed at her son. Her divinity was unmistakable, unyielding, and unsettling.

“Why have you called me here, Achilles,” she demanded.

When Thetis spoke, one could see that her teeth were just a _touch_ too long and sharp.

“Mother, I must ask you for a favor,” Achilles said, voice resolute.

“A favor,” Thetis coldly repeated. “You ask me for a favor when, despite all my warnings and protections, you fought a war destined to destroy you. Killed the man whose death would assure your own. And you _now,_ fate already sealed, ask me for a favor?”

Achilles did not hesitate in his response.

“Yes. I ask you for a favor. I reject that prophecy and my supposed fate. Mother, if you ever did care for your son, tell him where he may find an entrance to the Underworld. That is the favor I ask of you.”

Thetis frowned and stared down at Achilles; her eyes, solid blue like sapphires, bore into him.

“This is all I will do for you,” she finally said.

A small bound scroll materialized in her hand, which she presented to Achilles.

“But before you take this,” she said, “ask yourself this: Is that _boy_ truly worth it? If you fail, you will suffer eternal torment.”

Thetis’s grave warning did nothing to faze Achilles.

“Patroclus is the only one worth _anything_,” he declared.

Thetis’s voice was no longer disapproving. Rather, it was one of the acceptance of an unpleasant, yet immutable, truth.

“Very well,” she said. “This is the last time we shall ever speak, my son.”

Then Thetis vanished in the same rush of cold and wet she had appeared in.

+++

It would be a difficult journey. In the dead of night, Achilles took the bare minimum supplies he would need and loaded them onto his smallest ship. After muttering only the most perfunctory prayer to Poseidon and word of thanks to his mother, Achilles sailed off into the fathomless sea.

Achilles had devised a plan in which Briseis would claim that he had been killed in the night through divine intervention – it would explain the absence of his body, and they had spilled a cow’s blood on his bed as well. Thus, it was imperative that Achilles sail far enough that it would be impossible to spot him the next morning, lest his lie be exposed. Such an event would brand Achilles a deserter – a coward – and besmirch his name. Achilles could not allow that to happen, not when Patroclus had fought and died to protect that name. And so, Achilles sailed tirelessly through the night, doing everything in his power to turn all the winds and waves to his advantage.

When the winds were favorable enough for the ship to sail swiftly on its own, Achilles either studied the scroll’s map or sharpened his weapons. At times, he felt a strange desire to pick up his lyre, pluck at the strings, and let a mellifluous tune pass through his lips. But, every single time, Achilles talked himself out of it:

It had been years since he last played; he wouldn’t be skilled enough to get actual music or pleasure out of his efforts. Or, he couldn’t afford to get distracted by the lyre and risk drifting off course. It wouldn’t do to waste his energy, not when singing would make him thirsty, and he only had so much water… Achilles had a practically inexhaustible reserve of good reasons why he shouldn’t play.

But those good reasons, as rational as they may be, were nothing more than excuses. There was only _one_ legitimate reason why Achilles wouldn’t allow himself to play, he just refused to admit it. After all, what did it matter that Achilles only ever put his soul into his music when he had played for Patroclus? What did it matter than no one but Patroclus had valued his skill will the lyre as much as his skill with the spear? What did any of it matter?

Achilles told himself that what mattered most was that his time would be better spent checking the map for the nineteenth time.

+++

One day, long after it had become impossible to track how much time had passed, Achilles brought his ship to a grinding halt on a small beach. Doing so had rather damaged the vessel, but it didn’t matter. Achilles would not be sailing on it again.

Achilles was confident that his journey had been successful, and a brief conversation confirmed that yes, he was not only back on Greek land but also in Laconia. He was now in the southern region of the Pelopponnese, but he would have to travel even further south. To Cape Taenaron, the southernmost tip of Greece itself.

It made a certain amount of poetic sense, that the entrance to the Underworld was as far _down_ as one could possibly go.

+++

In no way did Cape Taenaron look like the powerful, divinely charged place that it was. It was a narrow, dry, rocky peninsula; loose stones tumbled around with Achilles’s every step. There were no beaches to speak of, only sheer cliffs that dropped straight into the ocean. The mountain did not even have any flowers, shrubs, or trees to boast of, no small tinkling creeks flowing like blue-blooded veins.

Laboring under the bright, punishing sun and breathing the dry, dusty air, Achilles reached the culmination of his journey. He stood at the Gates of Hades, in the suddenly cold shade, and stared at the strong arches. Although the stones were the same monotonous grey-brown as the rest of the land, the structure was as imposing as the pristine columns of the Parthenon; although the centers of the arches were low enough for Achilles to brush with his fingertips, they loomed over him like a massive statue of Zeus.

There were no letters inscribed upon the gate. No name of Hades no warning to those who would enter, nothing that marked the place for what it was. There was no need.

+++

Achilles, son of Peleus, did not fear the Underworld, domain of Hades. He did not fear the pitch-dark chasm he walked in to; he did not fear the anguished cries of the damned. He did not fear the River Styx and its ferryman; he paid them no mind. On account of his mother’s precautions, Achilles simply swam across and climbed out into the heart of the Underworld.

The golden ichor that partially coursed through Achilles veins attuned him to divinity. He felt the tendrils of Hades’s power inextricably curl themselves through the entire realm; he felt the pull towards the ghastly castle in the distance.

Contrary to what all the tales suggested, the journey to that castle was not difficult. There were no rivers of fire to cross, no great beasts to best. No rattling skeletons that guarded the doors and blocked the paths. There was only a long, hard walk. And perhaps Achilles’s initial judgment was wrong. Maybe the trek to Hades’s palace _was _horribly challenging, in an entirely different way from what Achilles had expected. There may not have been any monsters for him to fight, but the seemingly endless path Achilles followed gave him all too much time alone with his own mind. It made for thoroughly unpleasant company.

Until then, Achilles had pushed himself forward through the sheer force of his own will. He wanted something and was simply taking the required steps to get it. There was no time to thin, not when he was always keeping busy. But now, Achilles was almost done. He was close to success. All that remained was to reach the castle and appeal to Hades. After that, there were only two possible outcomes – either that Achilles succeed and triumphantly emerge with Patroclus, or that Achilles fail and thus be killed. So, there was nothing for him to think about, nothing that was related to his quest. His mind was left to wander on his long, solitary walk. Achilles, that fierce, indomitable warrior, was horrified by where it went.

+++

This time, there were guards. Someone, who Achilles presumed to be a powerful, celebrated, long-forgotten hero, stood staunchly at the entrance to the throne room. However, the warrior looked nothing less than corporeal.

_That’s fine, then,_ Achilles thought.

He deftly flipped his spear into a fighting position and assumed a firm stance. He scanned the guard’s form for any signs of attack and, seeing none, swiftly lunged at the spirit. Achilles savagely thrust the point of his spear into the guard’s chest – and stumbled right through to the other side of his body.

A melodic laugh sounded from inside the throne room.

“Oh, I wouldn’t do that,” it warned. “The guards may look alive, but they are still very much spirits. That doesn’t mean, however, that they can’t hurt _you_, boy.”

The voice giggled to itself once more, then addressed the guard.

“Let this one in. I’d like to know why a mortal is so desperate to see my dear husband.”

With an air of reluctance, the guard pushed the heavy stone doors open. In the center of the room, upon an elevated dais, was Persephone, Queen of the Underworld. Resplendent with gems sparkling in her hair, she casually lounged on a cushioned ebony bench. She grinned at Achilles’s somewhat mystified expression.

“Oh, don’t be so surprised,” she said, a bit of exasperation in her tone. “This will all turn back into that monstrosity of a throne once my husband returns.”

Persephone smirked again.

“Weren’t expecting that either, were you, little hero?”

Admirably and even a little miraculously, Achilles was able to respond without making a fool of himself or gravely disrespecting Persephone, Destroyer of Light.

“My Lady, where, may I ask, is Lord Hades?”

Unlike Persephone’s previous responses, which were quick, witty, and lighthearted, it took some consideration for her to prepare this particular answer.

“Olympian business,” she said, in a manner that made it clear that Achilles wouldn’t be receiving any further information.

“Now, what I’m more interested in is why _you’re _here,” she said, back in her jocular tone. “Don’t think I don’t know all about your prophecy, _Aristos Achaion_. Why do you come looking for death?”

“I am not looking for death, my Lady,” Achilles said, hope starting to rise unbidden in his chest, now that he was given a chance to make his case. “I am here to ask for life.”

Even more amused now, Persephone bid Achilles continue.

“Oh? But you seem plenty alive to me and all the others here. Why don’t you tell me just _whose_ life you’re asking for.”

Was Achilles’s lovesick desperation that obvious, or was Persephone taking advantage of her divine omnipotence?

“The life of Patroclus, son of Menoetius, my Lady,” Achilles answered. “He was killed in the Trojan War.”

Internally, Persephone grinned and laughed with glee. Her suspicions had been correct – Achilles _had_ journeyed to the Underworld to save his dead lover.

“Many men died in the war,” Persephone said. “I’m sure you understand if I don’t quite know who you’re talking about.”

Achilles tensed and tightened his grip on his spear.

“Patroclus, no matter what anyone says, was the best of the Greeks. He was my companion in childhood, he trained with me on Mount Pelion under Chiron. He led an army into battle against the Trojans and fought valiantly until he died at the hands of Hector.”

“So,” Persephone said, “you’ve known this Patroclus for a long time, haven’t you? And why is this boy from a tiny kingdom so important to you, _Aristos Achaion? _Why do you call him by your title?”

Perhaps it was a little cruel, interrogating the young, highly upset boy for information Persephone was more than well aware of. But she could hardly let him simply get what he wanted and then walk away. Persephone may be willing to bend the rules just a bit, but never without testing Achilles first.

“Patroclus is the only person I know that doesn’t think a warrior is the most honorable thing you can be. He’s never power-hungry like so-called ‘great men.’ He’s an incredible healer, I’ve seen him save a man from what would have been certain death. He praised my singing, not how many men I killed in a battle. He is kind without being weak and strong without being cruel,” Achilles said, looking somewhere around Persephone’s right temple rather than at her eyes.

“Alright,” Persephone said. “So this Patroclus is a good man. But good men die every day. Why should he be any different?”

At this moment, Achilles wanted nothing more than to lunge at Persephone, seize her in his strong hands, and force her to return Patroclus to him, regardless of her divinity. But, with all of the little self-control he had, Achilles refrained from even directing an angry word at the goddess.

“Patroclus tempers me. He calms my rage and helps me see reason when I go too far. He keeps me grounded, reminds me that I’m a man just like any other. That I’m not a weapon, nor a god.”

At this confession, the strength and the fight seemed to leave Achilles’s body. He looked at Persephone, who was regarding him with a thoughtful, passive expression. It told him that she was very close to making her decision, and that the decision would be final. Achilles made his final appeal.

“I cannot live without Patroclus,” Achilles said. “There is no _reason_ for me to live without him; I cannot and will not. He loved me with no regard for my power or status, something no one else did – not my kind father or goddess mother. Just Patroclus, he who is half my soul. I cannot live without my soul,” he finished. “My Lady, please allow me to take Patroclus back with me, or kill me so that I can be with him in death.”

Persephone graced Achilles with a smile – a real one, this time.

“You cannot live without your soul, and he is half your soul,” she repeated. “It took a kind of courage you’ve never needed before to bare that soul to me, didn’t it? You warrior-types should do it more often. Simply talking would save you men a lot of wars.

“I’ve always liked a good, epic love story,” Persephone continued. “It’s a shame they always turn out to be so tragic, isn’t it? I was fond of that Orpheus, with his golden voice crying so beautifully for Eurydice. They were so close, those two. Awful how it turned out, but he had no one to blame but himself.

“But I think you, warrior that you are, will have more mental fortitude than a poet. And I never much liked that Paris,” Persephone added. “Go. Go back to the land of the living, and your lover will be waiting for you.”

Achilles’s mouth fell open in shock, and tears welled in his eyes. He moved as if to fall to his knees and offer up his thanks, but Persephone stopped him.

“No,” she firmly said. “Do not thank me, do not make any sacrifices to me – it will draw unwanted attention. You and Patroclus must live the rest of your lives in obscurity and expect no more divine favors. Now go, before I decide this is all more trouble than it’s worth.”

Taking her words to heart, Achilles bowed to Persephone and dashed out of the throne room. As he ran back down the path that had led him to the castle, it still felt unbearably long, but for entirely different reasons. He simply couldn’t get to his destination soon enough.

When Achilles finally emerged from the Underworld and felt the sun’s rays shine down upon him, he was finally alive again. Because there Patroclus stood, just as promised, but ten paces away from him. Waiting for Achilles with a warm smile on his face, a healthy glow to his skin. Achilles ran over to Patroclus and tried to call out his name, only for his voice to fail and turn to sobs. Achilles had meant to wrap his arms around Patroclus and never let go, but now it was Patroclus who knelt and tightly embraced Achilles. The swift-footed warrior clung to his lover, crying into his chest as unimaginable amounts of sorrow, anger, guilt, and anxiety released themselves. A soothing hand found its place on Achilles back, and soft, murmured words restored the natural rhythm of his heart.

It was true that things would be hard for a time. They were essentially exiles living in a land where lineage was everything. The war was an ugly thing and would haunt them; it would take time to heal. But that, and all the rest, was alright. Because they had each other and the rest of their lives.

**Author's Note:**

> yes i blatantly ripped off a fuck-ton of homeric epithets
> 
> title from Wuthering Heights by Emily Brontë
> 
> also, check out the "helen" as a unit of measurement, i promise it's worth it https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Helen_(unit)


End file.
